This Is My Denial
by smoke-at-dawn
Summary: John can't cope with Sherlock's return after three years, so he turns to thing he knows best. Denial.
1. Prologue

A sliver of yellow light briefly flashed onto the pavement, and a snatch of raucous laughter and voices could be heard, before the door swung shut, leaving the street in a dim glow from the street lights. A couple emerged as they walked towards the inadequate car park, a close scrutiny identified them as a man and a woman; the man was considerably intoxicated and swayed while the woman struggled to support him, "John, you're really not making this very easy" she laughed. They reached the car and, with surprising agility, the woman opened the door and settled her partner into his seat, she closed the door and moved over to the opposite side, starting the car with a self-satisfied smile and a fond glance at the person next to her. They drove out of the car park and disappeared with a turn to the left.

Another man materialised from the gloom, pausing for a moment to stare after the car; then turning on his heel to walk away, he tightened his scarf and pulled up his collar against the cold November night.


	2. Chapter 1

John woke to a dull pounding in his skull, with a low groan he pulled himself up and blearily gazed around at his surroundings; he was in a small room fitted with an armchair and a leather sofa, colourful spreads lay scattered across the furniture and bookshelves towered up to the ceiling, he realised he had slept on the sofa awkwardly, explaining the ache at the base of his spine. There was a large bay window to his right pointing towards the cosy street outside; John witnessed the start of another day as a postman cycled past on his rounds, the pigeons and sparrows that had collected on the rooftops scattered and called, angry about their disturbed slumber.

The throbbing intensified; John sighed and rubbed his temples with his index fingers, closing his eyes against the pain. He struggled to recall what'd happened the night before, he remembered a funeral, _but it couldn't be Sherlock's; that was three years ago. No,_ John thought decisively _the vicar said a different name-Brian… Brian Millar!_ His head snapped up; it'd been Brian Millar's funeral, they'd served together in Afghanistan and he'd been killed in action, then there was a wake afterwards in a pub. With a moan, John's head sank into his hands in shame; _I got drunk,_ he remembered, _the funeral reminded me of Sherlock so I got drunk at the pub_. He glanced around again, _and by the looks of things someone had to take me back to their house_.

All of a sudden a door opened next to him and woman shuffled in, looking at John with concern "Are you okay? I heard groaning and I thought you were hurt"

Without thinking John stood to attention at her entrance; a misguided attempt at courtesy after his behaviour the night before "yeah, I'm fine. Sorry Aileen, I must've been an absolute mess yesterday" he smiled with relief; he remembered her name at least.

She stared at the ground "it's okay, I know what it's like to lose your best friend", John felt his throat tighten and willed himself to breathe; he still struggled, after three years.

Then Aileen started to laugh in an effort to lighten the mood "In fact, I would've joined you but there's… this" she looked down again and gestured towards her stomach which bulged slightly, a little bump, John wasn't a midwife but he guessed she couldn't have been more than four months.

With a gasp, her hand flew to her bump and she grasped John's hand, his stomach lurched and he silently prayed there was nothing wrong with the baby, but instead she grinned; "it kicked!" She pulled his hand to her stomach, John hesitated; it felt wrong to touch a dead man's wife, to relish in the promise of a new life when one had just be taken. Aileen seemed to read his thoughts "its okay, he used to do it all the time to completely random strangers" John relaxed and gave her his hand, there was a pause, a long drawn out moment, and then a tiny tap against his palm, his heart leapt and he smiled at her; feeling genuinely happy for the first time in what felt like an age. "We would be walking along Oxford Street, I'd gasp and he'd grab them and pull their hand to my stomach, he liked to see their face light up and know that it was our special baby that'd caused that happiness", she let go of John's hand and turned away as her eyes started to brim with tears, he heard her take a deep, ragged breath and she span back around to face him "coffee's in the kitchen, will you want any toast? Also, I've got paracetamol upstairs for your headache" she pointed to his forehead

John nodded "that would be great, thanks".

* * *

><p>Sherlock paced to-and-fro on the pavement outside 221B Baker Street, weighing the keys he'd slipped from the awning outside 'Speedy's' in his hand, deciding, once again, whether or not this was the right thing to do. Finally, with an indignant grunt, he strode forwards and pushed the key into the lock, turning them slowly, he was surprised by sudden anxiety that overwhelmed him. He stepped into the hall cautious not to make a sound, despite the fact John was at <em>that woman's house<em> and Mrs Hudson was visiting her new grandson, his stomach twisted even tighter. The door creaked as he pushed it shut, leaving only the sun filtering through the window above, his shadow stretched ahead of him, beckoning him upstairs, taunting his curious desire to see the flat again, to breathe in the musty smell of old books and newspapers, to sit in his familiar leather armchair and tease John's naivety. Sherlock gave in and crept up the stairs, his breath hitched in his throat and his heart raced at the sight of the living room, he hesitated at the door; unsure if he was permitted here anymore, it felt bizarrely like he was trespassing as he crossed the threshold. He walked over to the desk and smiled, all his notes lay untouched, but not dusty; John must've been extremely careful with them, _sentiment_ he thought _such an inconvenient thing to feel_. Out of the corner of his eye he spotted the skull still on the mantlepiece and all but ran over to it, laughing with delight, he lifted it up and stared at it, as if he might start reciting Shakespeare.

Then, putting the skull back, he looked eagerly around for his science equipment and violin, the latter stood propped up on the bookshelf; it hadn't been touched but Sherlock smiled to see that Mrs Hudson hadn't allowed it to collect dust either. Slowly, he moved towards it, his hands stretching out to hold the bow and neck; tucking the tailpiece button under his chin and lifting the bow to the strings, he paused, wary of alerting anyone of his presence. But the compulsion to play won over his instincts as he gently stroked the bow across, softly filling the apartment with his own melody, it was slow and sweet and Sherlock felt a pang of homesickness for the comfortable life he'd had three years ago.

* * *

><p>The plastic bag clattered to the floor; John stared at Sherlock, his mouth agape. They stayed there for a few seconds before John snapped out of his trance and ran a hand through his hair "took you long enough"<p>

Sherlock frowned "what do you mean?"

"I've been waiting for you" John busied himself with tidying up the products of his shopping; the corners of Sherlock's mouth lifted slightly at the sight of a jam jar surreptitiously concealed underneath a packet of liquorice.

"I-I don't understand" _How could John know? Molly definitely didn't tell him, she almost threw herself at me when I mentioned him in passing_

John returned from putting the shopping away in the kitchen and stood behind the armchair facing Sherlock, his hands gripped the back with such force his knuckles were turning white "I've been 'hearing' your voice for a while now, so I guessed it was only a matter of time before I started seeing you. I thought it would've happened sooner though. I suppose madness takes some time to manifest," he looked down at his hands and muttered "Ella's going to have a field day"

_Oh,_ Sherlock started _he's been 'hearing' me?_ "John, you're not going mad"

"And now I'm arguing with an imaginary figure over whether or not my sanity is still intact"

Sherlock rose from the chair and moved next to John who turned to face him, standing straight and refusing to look Sherlock in the eye. Sherlock let his gaze fully consume John after three years; his hair was shorter (but that was to be expected), his jumper was slightly creased and had been left unwashed for one day too long, his shirt was new but hardly worn due to the design being aimed at a younger buyer (probably a gift from Harry) and his hands were still. _Is he under stress right now? _Sherlock shook his head slightly and looked at John's face, his stomach churned; there were premature wrinkles and bags surrounding his eyes and his mouth seemed to be set in a permanent frown.

John stared back at the man opposite him and stepped backwards in shock, letting out an involuntary cry "you-you're… It's you!"

Sherlock smiled "yes"

"But I saw you fall, I-I took your pulse" John spluttered

"No, you didn't"

"What?"

"I fell into the truck, but the position you were standing at made it look like I fell onto the pavement _behind _the truck. I slipped a small rubber ball under my armpit, covered myself in blood and scrambled back onto the pavement by which time you had been knocked to the ground by the cyclist. Everyone who crowded around me were aware of the deception, as were the two paramedics"

John stared at Sherlock; the indifference in his voice when he explained his 'death' disgusted John, his stomach clenched and he flexed his fists at his side, trying oh-so-hard not to punch Sherlock, and stepped past him so John could pace the short distance from the coffee table to the fireplace "unbelievable"

"It's ok now" The instant the words were out of his mouth Sherlock realised he'd said the wrong thing.

John whirled around to face him "No, Sherlock, it is not ok! You don't just throw yourself off a roof, _in front of me_, and go gallivanting for three years while we mourn you! Even by your standards that's sick!" He stood in the middle of the floor, closed his eyes and forced himself to breathe, _1,2… 1,2… 1,2…,_ but his heart raced and questions threw themselves relentlessly around his skull. He turned to look at Sherlock and whispered "how long?"

"John…"

His voice got louder "How long did you know, Sherlock?"

"I'd got a hint when Moriarty paid us a visit, but it was confirmed after we'd broken in to Kitty Riley's flat"

Another pause "How?"

"…Molly"

"Of course" John sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and index finger "Sherlock, I want you to leave" he said calmly, not lifting his eyes from the carpet.

Sherlock's heart froze and his stomach turned to lead "John, I…"

"Please, Sherlock" John lifted his gaze to look at his friend; his eyes swam and his lips trembled "I need you to go. _Please_"

Sherlock stared at John, struggling to form the words he needed to make it right, to make it work again. He needed to tell John, _show _him, how much he'd missed him. How every day waking up in an unfamiliar, dingy location in some God-forsaken hole in the middle of nowhere and knowing he couldn't come home- to conduct experiments or confer with John over their latest case, or flop about on the sofa or even shoot holes in the bloody wall- had almost killed him.

But he stayed silent. He nodded and left without a word, noiselessly closing the door of 221B behind him. It was only when he heard the click of the lock hitting home that he allowed a solitary tear to roll down his cheek.


	3. Chapter 2

Perched precariously on the edge of his bed, Sherlock tapped on his laptop; books were strewn across the floor, their open pages left abandoned, and sheets of paper covered his duvet. He heard a scuffling outside and peered through the small gap between his nearly-closed door and the frame; he caught a glimpse of John walking past in his slippers, rubbing his fists against his eyes and yawning. For a brief moment, as John brought down his hands from his face, their eyes locked; Sherlock searched for a sign of acceptance in John's gaze, a small glimmer of hope that meant he still believed in his friend, in his friend's cause. But the spell broke with a dismissive shrug of John's shoulders, and he carried on walking, not once looking back. Sherlock thought he'd grown accustomed to the lump that lodged stubbornly in his throat whenever he looked at John, but he hadn't. It stayed put, as a constant reminder of what he'd almost lost. And what could be lost still.

* * *

><p>It'd been a week since Sherlock's 'resurrection'; he'd invited Mrs Hudson and Lestrade to the flat under the ruse of John having a crisis. John was a little annoyed by the eagerness with which they 'came to his aid' but to be fair to them, they'd taken Sherlock's surprise a lot better than John himself had; Mrs Hudson cried and grasped Sherlock in a hug so tight it was a wonder he could step backwards to breathe, and Lestrade turned pale, running a hand through his grey hair. Then he stepped forwards and embraced the man heartily before quickly pulling away and offering his hand in an attempt to cover the awkwardness.<p>

John put on a smile and babbled about how shocked and happy he is, and nodded whilst the others repeated him. They talked about cases and reminisced as they drank the tea Mrs Hudson had momentarily disappeared to make, at some point Molly appeared, sheepishly poking her head around the door. Sherlock beckoned her in with an empathetic smile and, much to everyone's surprise, it was Lestrade who spoke first "I don't blame you, Molly"

She beamed at him and her eyes watered as everyone murmured in agreement, she glanced over at John and he smiled; her face lit up and she spent the rest of the evening in a deep conversation with Lestrade.

But John couldn't talk to Sherlock.

He was being petty, he knew it, but he couldn't look at Sherlock without feeling betrayed, and so _ashamed_. John had prided himself on being the closest to Sherlock, the one who could tell what he was thinking from the way his fingers tapped absentmindedly against a surface, or the one who could drag Sherlock-blinking and frowning-back to the land of the living after three days spent unconscious on the sofa, the one who dealt with the moods swings and addictions, and sudden bursts of energy that would result in a marathon across London.

But this time, when it most mattered, he hadn't been able to get into Sherlock's head, and John hated himself for it. So he didn't look at Sherlock, because John knew the disappointment in his eyes would be misjudged and would only result in the void between them widening, pushing them a little further apart.

* * *

><p>With a sigh, John reached down the box of tea bags wedged next to an alarmingly large jar of feet and popped one into his mug before shuffling over to the kettle. He winced as he caught sight of his reflection in the glass of a cabinet; he'd been good at keeping up appearances-making sure his hair didn't look too dishevelled, after another night deprived of sleep, and shaving every morning-but the dark circles under his eyes and the steadily increasing tremor in his hands gave him away.<p>

Sarah had noticed it first. She sent him home the second day after he'd returned to the clinic, smiling understandingly and assuring him that everything will be fine, and yes Mrs Tiller will get her weekly check-up and, no the Howard twins won't be separated. In the end she almost had to push him out of the door, John smiled and said it was probably just a headache, she nodded and told him to get plenty of rest "after all what good's a sick doctor?".

John swallowed and buried his face in his hands-what good's a man who can't even tell his best friend is going to jump off the roof of a hospital? He was a doctor. He was supposed to save lives. And he'd neglected to save the most important one.

Only, Sherlock _was_ still alive. He was in his room, no doubt updating his blog with another type of tobacco ash he'd discovered, the thought made John chuckle; _"no one cares that there are 240 types of tobacco ash" "243, John!"_

"What's amusing?"

John jumped at the sudden voice at the door, knocking over his newly made tea in the process. Muttering profanities, he grabbed the kitchen roll and dabbed at the brown puddle threatening to drip off the counter, being careful not to scald himself, all the while trying his best to ignore the figure hovering behind him.

"Do you want any help?"

"No, thank you" John replied through gritted teeth

Sherlock moved slightly towards him, offering out an arm "I could-"

"No. Thank you" Sherlock retreated and continued to watch. John felt his back tense in irritation and span around to face the man "What, Sherlock? Why are you standing there?"

"I'm just waiting to get to the fridge" Sherlock crossed his arms over his chest and stared at John

"Well wait somewhere else!" John had to clench his fists to stop himself from shouting, or punching Sherlock,

Sherlock sighed and John turned back to the counter, mopping up the last dregs of the tea with the sodden paper, he heard a movement behind him and exhaled, closing his eyes; _'he's gone now'_.

Suddenly, Sherlock appeared next to John and stretched a hand over to the kettle; John froze and Sherlock drew back his arm to study John "you haven't been sleeping"

John shrugged and stared at the tissue in his hands "I've got insomnia"

"What?" Sherlock's voice was sharp and he narrowed his eyes

"It's a psychological condition that means I don't sleep"

"Yes I know what insomnia is," Sherlock snapped "my question is; why do you have it?"

"Nightmares. I'm quickly becoming Ella's most interesting patient" John smirked sarcastically

Sherlock paused to stare at John before he spoke again "what are your nightmares about?"

John struggled to swallow the lump in his throat, shifting self-consciously while he avoided Sherlock's intense gaze "er… you, mostly"

Sherlock nodded and closed his eyes "what about me?"

"I'm running, to you, and I can see you on the roof. I try to scream but no sound comes out… and I can _feel_ the panic rising up in me like I might throw up any minute and I keep running but you're getting further away rather than closer. Then you…" John took a deep, shaky breath and glanced at Sherlock; his face was pinched like he was in pain and he gripped the counter so hard his knuckled were white. _Why am I even telling him this? I haven't told Ella, so why the hell tell him? _John gulped and carried on "jump and when I finally get to you I'm being shoved out of the way so I can't see you. Then, everything changes and I'm back in Afghanistan and I can see _you _there, in khaki, lying on the dirt next to me but you're bleeding terribly and there's nothing I can do to stop it. The panic comes back and I'm frantically searching for _anything_ to stop you from dying and then I… notice someone walking towards us with a gun and just as he pulls the trigger I wake up" John neglected to mention the moment when, just before he notices the stranger with the gun, he feels Sherlock go limp in his hands and the sudden realisation turns his body numb and he doesn't even think of defending himself against the terrorist.

Sherlock turned to face him "thank you, John", then, with a stiff nod, he left the room._ 'A round of applause for John Watson,' _John sighed _'he finds out his best friend _isn't _dead and then alienates him by ignoring him and convincing the man that he is now psychologically traumatised because of him. Very clever indeed'_.


End file.
